


Until It Broke

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Yuuri is not okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: When the slicing of the blades on the ice quieted down, and Victor’s larger than life presence left the room, all Yuuri was left with were the pockets of emptiness inside. And the white noise which grew louder as the months trailed on. He was suspended in the middle of a jump, and in a deep recess of his mind was the awareness that he would have to crash down. Sooner or later.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning!**  
>  See end notes.

Saint Petersburg was cold. After spending a good portion of his life on the ice Yuuri thought he had gotten used to the white glare of the ice and the chill seeping through his clothes. But the snow-covered streets outside their home were filled with such a deep all-encompassing cold he could not shake off. No matter how hard he tried. The sky was so dark, forbidding. And the orange of the streetlamps made the snow glow with a dull shine. Yuuri felt chilled to the core, like every tendril of warmth had been stripped off him. And nothing but the neverending darkness remained.

He looked away from the window, pulling the curtain back in place. The Nationals were over and Victor was training in earnest for the Euros, doing longer hours at the rink. Yuuri could see the exhaustion slowly creeping on him. Training and coaching at the same time was too much even for him. But whenever Yuuri brought the subject up, Victor assured him that everything would be fine. After all, they had both medalled at the GPF in Marseille, so they could do it. 

The dark circles blooming under Victor’s eyes spoke differently. And Yuuri felt guilty. It was a cold guilt that tasted like the winter air of Saint Petersburg. He wanted them both to skate and at the same time he wanted Victor as his coach. 

The selfishness of it made his stomach clench. He could feel the bile in his throat and he swallowed it down, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

He should be cooking dinner, it was getting late. But he was cold, and there was a weight pushing his shoulders downwards until he was hunched above the counter, gripping the edge of the formica. The white light of the kitchen lamp was so lifeless, empty like the spaces inside him. 

When the slicing of the blades on the ice quieted down, and Victor’s larger than life presence left the room, all Yuuri was left with were the pockets of emptiness inside. And the white noise which grew louder as the months trailed on. He was suspended in the middle of a jump, and in a deep recess of his mind was the awareness that he would have to crash down. Sooner or later.

He looked at the white kitchen tiles on the wall, and felt crushed by the sheer emptiness of the space around him. Of the city with its large too large streets and large too large squares. With its endless sky stretching above the Neva river and space so much space around him, above him. He was in his and Victor’s apartment, but the empty space was still around him. It curled between the minimalist furniture and the lack of walls. 

There was a coil of fear in the small of his back and Yuuri suddenly turned, back against the kitchen cabinets. And then a slow slide until he was sitting on the floor. His knees pulled upwards and Yuuri buried his head between them, hugging them tightly. He was so cold and everything was so empty. And so loud. The clock on the wall in front of him sliced the silence with every tick, and Makkachin’s yawn nearly startled him. The dog was sleeping on the couch. And Yuuri wished he were there. His curly fur would be warm, and soft. 

Vaguely he registered that he shouldn’t be sitting on the kitchen floor. That he was very likely having an episode. That he should get his phone and call Victor. He had not had a breakdown since Detroit, and he should have known better than to swipe the problem under the rug. He should have known that sooner or later he would fall apart once again. It had been Phichit who had been there for him last time. Who had held Yuuri, keeping an endless stream of nonsense until he had calmed down. Who had tucked a thick blanket around him. And stopped the tide before it had swept him under.

But there was no Phichit now, and Victor was at the rink. And his phone was on the coffee table. He was alone, like he had been when he had first moved from Japan to the USA and Phichit had not been his roommate yet. He was alone and he was cold and the white noise was growing louder. Yuuri pressed his hands on his ears to shut the sounds, the clock, the dog, his thoughts. But the weight on his shoulders was growing heavier and it would not go away. It would not go away.

His fingers dug in his scalp, but everything was too much. And he was so cold, so lost. Alone. He pulled his hair and his breath hitched. But it wasn’t enough. No it wasn’t enough, because the world was pushing him under and Yuuri gasped for breath. But it was around him and inside him, pushing to get out. And he was nothing but a shell of muscle and bone nearing close to rupture. He pulled his hair harder and it hurt. It hurt. With each tug the world seemed to realign itself, like the ground felt firmer under his his jeans. But it wasn’t enough.  

He suddenly gripped his left forearm with his fingers and dug the nails in. Deep until it hurt. Until it hurt enough for his mind to ground itself. For a heartbeat. He dug again, deeper, feeling the burn of the skin about to break, but it was not enough. It was not enough. 

_ He  _ was not enough. The weight of his whole existence, of all the expectations, of all the sacrifices, of all the promises, everything choked and choked and choked. And no matter how deep he dug his nails it did not stop him from falling down down down. And never reaching the ground. Never closing his eyes and giving in to the pain of the ice slamming in his back. 

Yuuri was on his knees opening the kitchen drawer before he even realised what he was doing. He pulled out the knife he used to peel fruits. It was small, with a black handle and a short sharp blade. His hand trembled, but the white noise was deafening and the cold of the handle in his palm felt more grounding. 

Vaguely he registered that he should not be doing this. That in the long run it would not bring any relief. Only shame. Endless horrible shame at how weak and broken he was. It would bring long sleeved shirts and smuggled bottles of antiseptic. He had been there before. He knew there was no solace in the pain. And yet and yet. It was too much. He wanted everything to stop. The noise, the cold, the choking grip on his throat.

He pulled the blade across his forearm, slowly pushing it against the skin. A trail of white followed it, before a thin red line appeared. The pain was numbing, but it was not enough. It was not enough. He slashed again, with more force. And it hurt. Yes it hurt. Like falling out of an Axel. It hurt and he moved the knife again and again and again. His teeth were digging in his bottom lip and he faintly noticed Makkachin had started barking and whining. But he was crouched under the kitchen drawer and for a moment he was not there. He was free.

The knife clattered on the kitchen floor and Yuuri sagged, sliding down on the floor until his cheek was pressed against the tiles. There was silence. And warmth. Something wet on his face. He couldn’t see it behind his closed lids. But it was good. 

He was spent.

And then there were barks again and shouts. And he was being lifted off the floor by a pair of hands. There were blue eyes wide open and a deathly pale face in front of him. Victor was calling his name.

“Yuuri.” Victor said in a terrified voice “Yuuri, what happened? Are you alright? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Ambulance. Hospital. No, no, no. He could not go to a hospital. Then everyone would know and he could not let them. He could not let them know. He could not let them down. His head was shaking.

“N...No” Yuuri mumbled, feeling fear coil in his gut “I’m… Don’t call an ambulance. P...please.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t” Victor said quickly with an edge of panic in his voice “But I need to bandage your arm. I’ll get first aid.”

Yuuri nodded, leaning his head back until it hit the cupboard. 

After that, everything was a blur. He watched in a daze as Victor patched him up, his long fingers trembling. And then he was helping him to his feet and walking them towards the sofa. Yuuri sat down, looking numbly as the other man paced back and forth, running his fingers - still trembling - through his silver hair. Slowly, bit by bit the shroud of numbness began to dissipate.

He averted his eyes, staring at the brown bloodstains on his jeans. And wished he could disappear. Because he had broken down. He had broken down. And he…And Victor. Victor had seen it, had patched him up. 

“I’m...I’m sorry.” he mouthed, choking back a sob. 

Suddenly there were hands around his shoulders and he was being pulled against Victor’s chest. Sobs wrecked his breaths. And shame was an overwhelming tide that swept him under. He wanted to hide. He wanted to disappear. But Victor held him tight, murmuring something in broken Russian. And Makkachin leapt onto the sofa, curling over his lap, licking at his hand.

“Yuuri.” Victor said after a while, when his sobs had subsided and his breathing got back to normal “Do you… do you want to talk about it.”

“No.” Yuuri whispered back “But...but I guess I should.”

“We don’t have to do it now.” he told him gently, turning him so that they were looking at each other “You don’t have to talk to me if… if you don’t want to.”

Yuuri nodded, feeling exhaustion pull at his limbs. He didn’t want to talk about it, any of it. But he could not bear seeing Victor with terror in his eyes. It hurt deeper than any other thing. 

“It’s not the first time it happened.” he said slowly “I’ve had these... breakdowns a couple of times. The last few times Phichit was there and I got through. But the first time I… I hurt myself. The… the scar on my arm.”

Victor was looking at him, his eyes wide and full of sorrow. And Yuuri could feel the lump in his throat once again and tears dripped from the corners of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Victor. I’m really sorry.” he told him “I can’t help it when it happens. It… it feels like… I can’t describe it. It’s… everything is too much.”

Victor’s fingers pushed the tears away and he ran his hands through Yuuri’s hair, looking at with a searching gaze. He could still feel the tremble in Victor’s hands. He had scared him, he knew he had scared him and he felt horrible about it. Shame burned deep inside him. But beyond the fear, there was determination in Victor’s eyes. And something tender, something he could drown in. That look that was just for him. That made the cold of Saint Petersburg vanish. That turned the white noise to a quiet hum.

“Have you…” Victor began carefully “Have you thought about talking to someone about it?”

“Like a doctor?” he asked, swallowing. 

Victor nodded.

“No.” Yuuri replied, lowering his eyes “I… I don’t… You think I should?”

He could see the emotions flicker in his eyes, battling. Then Victor exhaled, gently cupping his face. And nodded.

Yuuri averted his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to talk to some stranger about things he didn’t even want to acknowledge. He didn’t. But he also didn’t want to see that look of sheer terror in Victor’s eyes. Ever again.

Yuuri squared his shoulders

“Then I’ll do it.” he said “I’ll do it.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic features a panic attack that is followed by self-harm. If you are triggered by these things, I don't recommend reading this fic. I'm sorry. <3


End file.
